Who was she and why was she there?

Whichever way he looked at it, he couldn't ignore two facts: the girl bore an uncanny resemblance to Celia; and she was Spanish.

Pure coincidence? No, Cedric didn't believe in coincidence. He believed in planning and minds as devious as his own.

The abduction had gone according to plan, except for that fool Marianne, who had lived to tell the tale. However, he'd dealt with her easily enough-fear, a generous pension, and a secluded cottage in the Highlands had ensured her silence. She'd been dead these last ten years, carrying the secret to her grave. But had Celia escaped from her abductor? Escaped… married some Spaniard… fathered a child?

It didn't make sense. If she'd escaped, she would have come home. It wouldn't occur to her that her brother could have had anything to do with some robber on a mountain pass. And if the girl was legitimately Celia's daughter, why didn't she come out and say so?

If she did have anything to do with Celia, then he had to deal with her. A matter somewhat complicated by St. Simon's protection. And further complicated by the fact that she now knew that someone was unusually interested in her. It was, of course, possible that she wouldn't be able to identify her masked attackers. She was a stranger, she'd certainly never seen the twins before. There was no reason why she should connect them with himself… unless she told St. Simon of the attack. He would have little difficulty naming those louts. But there was no reason why he should link their behavior with Cedric. He would be most likely to assume that they were up to their old tricks again.

He got up and poured himself a cognac, rolling the amber liquid on his tongue, frowning. If the girl did have anything to do with Celia, what could she possibly want? She had to want something. Everyone wanted something. Was it money she was after?

Well, whatever it was, he would discover soon enough. Perhaps he could encourage her to reveal her hand.

“It wouldn't be a big party, Julian,” Lucy said, her china-blue eyes glowing with enthusiasm. Just ten couples or so, and the usual families. No formal dancing, although perhaps we could roll up the carpet after supper. Not an elaborate supper-”

“My dear Lucy,” Julian interrupted, raising a hand to halt the flow. “If you wish to give a small party, I have no objection. The only question is whether Tamsyn wishes to try her society wings so soon.”

“Oh, of course she does,” Lucy said warmly. “It won't be in the least alarming. Everyone is so kind and they're all so interested in her and want to get to know her. You do wish to, don't you, Tamsyn?”

Tamsyn, who'd been listening to Lucy's bubbling excitement with some amusement, said obligingly, “If you say so, Lucy.”

“But you know how you become quite overcome with shyness and forget all your English,” Julian pointed out casually, leaning back in his chair, regarding her from beneath drooping eyelids. “Do you think you're really ready to burst upon the social scene without becoming completely incomprehensible?”

“But Tamsyn speaks perfectly good English,” Gareth protested, frowning as he flicked with his handkerchief at a spot of dust on his glistening Hessians. “Native, I would have said.”

“Ah, that may seem to be the case,” Julian said gently. “But, unfortunately, under pressure she forgets all her English and lapses into streams of Spanish.”

“I believe I've conquered my shyness,” Tamsyn declared with dignity. “I believe I'll be able to conduct myself without disgracing you, milord colonel.”

“Do you, now?” He stroked his chin, still regarding her with lazy amusement.

Lucy glanced quickly between them. Most of the time Julian treated Tamsyn with a careful, almost distant, politeness, and it was very difficult to believe what she and Gareth had seen in the corridor. Sometimes, though, as now, there would be something about their conversation or the way they looked at each other that hinted at some shared secret.

“Tamsyn couldn't possibly disgrace you,” she said a little awkwardly. “And I will stay beside her the whole evening and show her how to go on if she has any difficulties.”

“Then it seems the matter is settled,” her brother said, his voice once more cool and matter-of-fact. “Just don't expect me to make any of the arrangements. You may tell Hibbert to provide the wine and champagne from the cellars.”

“We must have an iced punch,” Lucy declared, leaping to her feet. “It was all the rage in London last Season. Annabel Featherstone has a wonderful recipe I'm sure I wrote it in my pocketbook. I'm certain Mrs. Hibbert will be able to make it up.”

She headed for the door, her usual indolence vanished. “Tamsyn, come and help me decide on the supper menu. And you could help me with the invitations, if you don't mind. It's tedious work writing them all out, but if we can do them all this evening, then Judson shall deliver them in the morning.”

“When are we to have this party?” Tamsyn inquired, reluctantly abandoning her plan for an evening gallop on Cesar.

Lucy paused to consider. “Next Saturday. Would that be all right, Julian?”

“Oh, perfectly,” he said. “With any luck I should be able to wangle an invitation somewhere else.”

“Oh, no!” Lucy exclaimed, horrified. “We cannot have a party at Tregarthan if you're not here to host it.”

“I believe St. Simon was jesting, my dear,” Gareth said, standing to peer into the mirror to make a minor adjustment to his cravat.

Lucy looked a little bewildered. “Come, Lucy,” Tamsyn said, taking her arm firmly. “You can show me exactly how one organizes a Society party. The only parties I have ever attended have been-”

“You attended parties in that convent of yours?”

Julian interrupted in swift warning.

Tamsyn kicked herself. She'd been about to describe the glorious almost tribal affairs in the mountain villages, where they roasted whole sheep and goats and the festivities could continue for three days.

“No,” she said. “But before I went to the convent, before my mother died, I did once attend a birthday party.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” Lucy exclaimed, shocked to her core at such a pathetic memory. “And you haven't been to a party since?”

“No,” Tamsyn said soulfully, glancing at the colonel.

“Pobrecita, “ he murmured, eyelids drooping over the mocking glint in the bright-blue orbs.

“Will you wish to examine the guest list, Julian, when I've made it out?” Lucy asked, still intent on the matter in hand.

“No, I leave it entirely in your more than capable hands,” he responded, pointedly picking up the newspaper.

Lucy nodded complacently. “I have a talent for organizing social events. We gave a very grand reception last Season, do you remember, Gareth?”

“Oh, yes, my dear,” he agreed, remembering also that he'd pronounced it a great bore and had taken his leave at the earliest opportunity, fleeing to Marjorie's cozy little house. Lucy had wept bitterly for most of the next day, but not a word of reproach had passed her lips. Guilt, as a result, had made him storm out of the house, saying he couldn't be expected to spend time with a watering pot.

The recollections were uncomfortable, and he resumed his seat as Tamsyn and Lucy left the room. Restlessly, he picked up his wineglass. It was empty. He peered into it for a moment, trying to recover his usual composure. He'd make it up to the pretty little thing, he decided. She was such a sweet innocent, and he hadn't taken that into account when they'd married. Couldn't expect her to perform like Marjorie… stupid of him to have thought she could. In fact, now that he gave the matter some thought, he didn't want his wife behaving with Marjorie's knowing ways. Quite shocking, it would be.

“I doubt your glass will fill just by looking at it, Fortescue.”